


Stress Management

by tsukinofaerii



Series: First Encounters [2]
Category: Marvel 3490
Genre: F/M, Genderswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve takes it upon himself to make sure Natasha eats something. He comes out a little wiser and a lot more confused for the experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Management

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cap_ironman holiday exchange at LJ.

Steve had gotten used to dinner time in the mansion without Natasha showing up. Iron Man did every few days, and the rest of the Avengers usually made an effort to at least eat together at roughly the same time every day to make things easier on Jarvis. Still, Natasha made only occasional appearances at her own table, and even then tended to only appear in passing, either on her way out or coming up out of her lab for air. When it was the latter, she always seemed surprised, as though the concept of mealtimes wasn't familiar.

Jarvis kept some sort of shake or snack available for her at all times. Unconsciously, Steve had gotten into the habit of monitoring them, watching the levels of green goop in the pitcher rise and fall, or the tray of vegetables fill and be emptied. It made the empty seat at the head of the table a little less obvious—she was a busy woman. Managing a financial empire couldn't have been easy, and from what Iron Man said, she had to do it pretty much by herself. When a whole day went past without a single carrot stick being taken, he started to worry.

Jan hadn't seen her. Hank never saw anyone but Jan, except maybe when he was staring directly at them. Thor had gone home to Asgard for the weekend. Iron Man was off somewhere unknown. Even Jarvis hadn't seen Natasha, though he assured Steve that she had not left the mansion.

Quick reasoning left only one place she could have been hiding: the lab. Steve didn't usually go down there. It felt like invading a private place, almost like her bedroom. Which was ridiculous, because he'd _been_ in her bedroom and it had been like being in a window display bedroom: completely sterile, without a hint that someone might live there. Still, he screwed up his courage and took the stairs down.

As Steve descended, the very first thing he noticed was the lack of music. Normally, when Natasha worked, she had _something_ blaring over hidden speakers. The style varied over everything from music Steve had grown up with to something that sounded a cat in an ironworks. He tapped in the code Natasha had given him and pushed the door open.

Finally, sound. A steady, loud beat of metal on metal, _CLANG_-tnk, sounding out a rhythm. It was the only noise in the lab. Even the computers had been shut down.

The lab was dim, half the lights cut away. It made the warm glow towards the back more obvious. Dummy hooted sadly as he passed, trailing along with his "head" held low. Steve patted the little robot absently, looking through the mess of the lab for Natasha. He hadn't been in it since she'd come up with some sort of half-metal, half-cloth reinforcement for his costume and had insisted that he watch it be put through every test she could think of, including a small explosion that had garnered news coverage and a stern letter from the local fire marshal.

He hadn't been impressed with the lab's tidiness then. It hadn't gotten better. Boxes of mechanical parts were scattered everywhere, some of them so battered that they were being held together by gravity and hope. Papers were stacked on every available surface, and a quick glance came up with seven coffee mugs, one of them full of what looked like green fuzz. Natasha was towards the back of the lab, in an area that had been completely cleared. All he could see was her back, but it was obvious she was working metal. Sweat made her white dress shirt cling to her, outlining curves and solid muscle that were usually hidden under thousand-dollar suit jackets. Every movement of her arm made them bunch and shift, sliding smoothly together. She'd pulled her dark hair back into a tight bun, so it didn't obscure the sleek line of her shoulders

Steve shook his head and pulled his eyes away before she could turn and catch him staring. Even knowing that women were a lot more free to do what they wanted, it caught him off-guard to see her doing something as masculine as smithing. He knew that Natasha had created the Iron Man suit, and Iron Man couldn't stop talking about her latest designs, usually in such detail that Hank was the only one who could follow. But it seemed like every time he saw her, she was dressed to the nines. It was hard to reconcile the classy woman he knew with the one beating out metal.

Especially with the language she was using while she did it.

_CLANG_-tnk

"—goddamn stupid son of a bitch—"

_CLANG_-tnk

"—show him a fucking girl toy—"

_CLANG_-tnk

"—defined by my goddamn _vagina_—"

Steam rose in a hiss as she dropped her work in the water barrel. Even across the lab, Steve saw her shoulders heaving, obviously from something more than effort.

Bad time. _Really_ bad time.

Steve took a step back, meaning to leave quietly. He tripped as his foot slammed into Dummy, who whistled alarm and rolled out of the way with a series of broken-hearted chirrups. Natasha twisted around, hammer lifted threateningly. The protective mask hid her face, but Steve was pretty sure that if she took it off he'd see tear stains.

What did you say when you'd walked in on what was obviously a private moment? Steve fought off a shiver. He could _feel_ her staring at him from behind her mask. Unlike when Iron Man did it, it was disturbing. "Um, I came to see if you want something to eat?"

"Food?" Her voice was hollow, making her seem like more of a robot than her bodyguard. She lifted her mask, and he'd been wrong. Her eyes were bright red, but that could have been exhaustion. That wasn't the only way she looked terrible. Deep bags were under her blue eyes, and the glow of the florescent lights made her skin look pasty. Grease smeared her forehead where she must have brushed her hair from her eyes. "There's food? Is it dinner?"

"Erm—Almost lunch, actually. You missed a day. Do you want me to bring you something?" Steve's eyes started to fall down her figure, then he yanked them back up before she could see him looking. Her leather apron anything but form-fitting, but he could barely make out a hint of curve at her hip, or the slight shadow of her bosom. It was worse than seeing her decked out in one of her too-short skirts. His imagination filled in all the details he needed, and then some. To cover his embarrassment, he blurted, "What are you working on?"

Natasha gave him a flat look. "Penis seeking missile. Testosterone triggered explosives. LDCD."

Steve's knees locked together protectively before she finished the first phrase. "LDCD?"

"Long Distance Castration Device." Natasha banked the coals and started stripping off her gear. Steve kept his eyes firmly on her face as her button-up, grease-stained dress shirt and cut off jeans were revealed. Natasha wasn't a short woman by any means, nor was she delicate, but something about her stiff-jawed glare said _fragile_. Her legs looked like they were made for running, and her shorts rode so low that he could see her hipbones. Even the outline of her bra was visible through her sweat-soaked shirt, one of the colorful ones that women wore to exercise in. A faint, white tracery of scar tissue ran up her ribs before vanishing under her shirt. He wondered what had caused it. "Food sounds like a bad idea. Sit with me. Tell me that my shorts are too short, or that I should be looking for a husband and having babies instead of being uppity and independent." Her arms swung out to the sides, hanging at shoulder height. She'd tied her shirt up under her breasts and rolled up her sleeves, but for some reason it was still buttoned almost to the collar. "Judge me."

"I don't think anyone but you can do that." As weird as the new decade was, Steve had given up on judging it. He couldn't expect the world to adjust to his standards. That wasn't fair. "Are you really making an— a LDCD?"

"If I said yes, would you stay?" She didn't let her arms drop, but her eyebrows lifted in challenge.

"I'd run," Steve admitted. Just thinking about it made him cringe. She probably wasn't—not really. Probably not. He hoped. "Someone made you angry?"

"You have no idea." Natasha watched him for a second, clasping her hands behind her. A few strands of her bun had broken free, clinging to her sweaty cheeks. She sashayed past him, deliberately bumping Dummy aside with a hip when he tried to beg for attention. "It's dealt with. I just needed to get out the frustration."

"By building explosives." Steve stared at her back.

"Yeah." Natasha paused, twisting to look at him. Her eyes were big and blue, framed by lashes so thick they belonged on a silver screen starlet, rather than someone with grease on her elbows. Something about the lighting cast a blue glow over her chest. Steve did his best not to look. "You know, you give me hope, Cap. Thanks."

"You're welcome?"

She smiled, one of her quick, charming little grins that never failed to make Steve blush. "You know, food doesn't sound so bad now. I'll tell you what: let me hop in a shower, get all wet and soapy and put on something that's not dirty. We'll get some burgers. I'll meet you upstairs."

Natasha took off at a jog before he could reply, vanishing up the stairs to the living area while he was still busy gaping.

At Steve's shoulder, Dummy whistled a question, turning to stare forlornly after his maker. Steve shrugged and gave the robot another pat.

"I know, boy. Dames."


End file.
